Crank
by GothicGIR
Summary: FULL SUMMARY INSIDE. I probably should have just smacked him in the mouth a few good times and continue on with my flyin'. Or, if I really wanted to pull the trigger, it should have been on myself. M FOR: abuse, rape, drugs, sex, violence, murder.
1. CRANK: prologue

Crank

**By: **GothicGIR

**Summary: : **"You should have just pled insanity, kid. You could have at least _tried_ to look like you were off your rocket. You had your whole life ahead of you." What I _should _have done was not pull the trigger in the first place. I probably should have just smacked him in the mouth a few good times and continue on with my flyin'. Or, if I really wanted to pull the trigger, it should have been on myself. Yaoi. NaruSasu. (Naruto and other people). Drugs. Rape. Sex. Murder/ violence. Child abuse.

**Author's note: **The title, Crank, was a title of a book by Ellen Hopkins. The only similarities between her book and this fanfiction are the drug use...and the title. I highly recommend reading ALL of Ellen Hopkins' books! They're amazing!

_Past narrative story/ voice in Naruto's head.  
_Recent telling/ what other's say during past narrative

* * *

**Prologue:**

"You're sentenced to death."

It shouldn't have been a surprised…but it still made the air in my chest slither up and get caught in my throat. For a few moments, I couldn't breathe. More importantly, I didn't know if I even wanted to. Hell, it wouldn't have been different anyway because of whatever set date the courtroom agreed on. Holding my breath, refusing to breathe or letting myself fall victim to the death sentence…it wouldn't have made much of a difference. I still was going to die. The only real thing that caused a twist was the prisoner died a little bit earlier than accepted. Suicide? Well, yeah. That was a sure difference, of course…not like it would be broadcasted throughout the jail, yet alone world.

"Nineteen Year Old Murder Killed Self a Few Weeks Before Death Sentence".

Bam. The whole story in one sentence. A waste of newspaper ink. A waste of time to read. Thus, a story to remain not published. It happens.

"Is there anything you want to do before you die?"

There is, actually. It's not leaving the jail and smelling the fresh air, surprisingly. I don't think I've done that in a few years…been too focused on getting a new high or maintain said high. Sometimes, though, I'd get a little time in with my boyfriend. Well, currently and forever _ex_boyfriend. I don't want to build a time machine and go back in time to fix everything either. Too unrealistic. I wouldn't mind going out and finding one of my Dealers again, but that's not what I want do. Entirely. No, I just want time to think, clearly. I know, without a doubt in my mind, I haven't done that in a long time. Five years to be exact.

That's all I want to do. Even now, locked away with the key hidden in the back of a stranger's pocket, I hadn't done any logical thinking. The first half year since I've been in here was stuck listening to people gossip about the crimes I was accused of; watching others point their fingers at me. Charge me with a load of drugs in my apartment. Charge me with murder. It gave me a headache. The plan devised solely by my lawyer was to plead insanity and just claim "the drugs were a way to cope". Instead, as I stood in front of a court room filled of unsympathetic people, I pleaded guilty and that I was fully aware of everything I had done. I had an Elbow* laying on the kitchen table, a Load* on my bed and a victim shot approximately three times- shoulder, head, groin- in the living room. Dead silence until his mother starting shrieking that I deserved to be killed.

The second half of the year I was in prison was spent obsessing over escape and a variety of ways to kill myself. Both failed. Escape, like the time machine idea, was unrealistic. I was too much of a coward to kill myself. Instead, fellow inmates beat on me and took advantage of my body. I refused to eat. I attempted to think about everything I had done since the age of fourteen to now. Every time I did, a voice in the back of my head taunted me. I didn't want to listen to him (me?) so I didn't think about my past. I just continued thinking about that two things I couldn't get away with.

I didn't think about my "friends". I didn't think about my "family". I didn't think about the life outside. I didn't think about the voice sneering in the back of my head.

And I sure as hell didn't think about Sasuke.

* * *

*Elbow: One pound of methamphetamine

*Load: 25 bags of heroin.


	2. CRANK: one

Crank

**By: **GothicGIR

**Summary: **"You should have just pled insanity, kid. You could have at least _tried_ to look like you were off your rocket. You had your whole life ahead of you." What I _should _have done was not pull the trigger in the first place. I probably should have just smacked him in the mouth a few good times and continue on with my flyin'. Or, if I really wanted to pull the trigger, it should have been on myself. Yaoi. NaruSasu. (Naruto and other people). Drugs. Rape. Sex. Murder/ violence. Child abuse.

**Author's note: **The title, Crank, was a title of a book by Ellen Hopkins. The only similarities between her book and this fanfiction are the drug use...and the title. I highly recommend reading ALL of Ellen Hopkins' books! They're amazing!

_Past narrative story/ voice in Naruto's head.  
_Recent telling/ what other's say during past narrative.

* * *

**Chapter: One**

_My biological father was Minato Uzumaki. From what I was told, my looks were nothing short of identical to his. Sun-kissed hair, baby blue eyes, tan skin, built physique. I was father's "mini-me". I didn't, however, obtain his personality…at least for awhile. Father was, and I quote, "a ruthless, artic-cold man and always trying to get his way. He wouldn't stand for it if something took even the slightest turn in his dead-set plan". Turns out, knocking up mother- and having her actually keep me- wasn't part of his plans._

_Mother…never really heard much about her, including her name. But she didn't want an abortion like Father had insisted on. I suppose that means she couldn't have been as cruel as him then. But I could be over thinking it. In any case, mother kept me. She gave birth to me. I was probably alive for…let's say three months, before daddy snapped. Maybe I was crying too much; maybe it was the meth Father was taking. Whatever it was, Father couldn't take it anymore. _"Imagine this_,_"_ grandfather told me once, _"You're just sitting in your son's house with about ten other people. A little 'get together' because your mother loved her family. You open your mouth to let out a little cry 'cause you were hungry. Then your father comes stumbling down the stairs, high as fuck, shooting everything. With a gun. Shot your aunt and me. Killed your grandmother and your mother. With all the screaming and shouting going on, he might have came to his senses and realized what he done. Didn't feel like going to jail and shot himself. Pop. Right between the eyes."_ At least, that's what I think grandfather was saying. Hard to understand a widowed lush with a bottle between his teeth._

_So, there you have it. In less than twenty-four hours, probably less than ten minutes even, I became an orphan. Thanks to dear old dad and his plans, his drugs, his gun. A nice way to start out your life. It became even nicer being tossed back and forth between people that were suppose to take care of me. The first family that was suppose to take care of me, assuming something happened to my parents, would be the grandparents. Well, grandma was dead and grandpa was mourning her death through alcohol. The second option was mother's friend Mikoto Uchiha. But since she was busy taking care of her own children while mourning the death of her closest friend, she didn't seem fit. Third and final option was being left in foster care. And, although I wasn't so much left there as I was brought back, that was the current home life situation I grew use to. One family comes bouncing in, eager to adopt, finds me- the one with the most tragic childhood- and takes me in, trying to prove a point to all of society that they are the ones with the biggest heart. Sure, they may have the biggest heart, but always the smallest patience. I would never stop crying or screaming. I wouldn't do what I was told. Within a month, sometimes even a few weeks, I was back in foster care. It wasn't a surprise to those working there until I was about five. A man with sickly pale skin and yellow eyes slithered his way into the foster care. Next to him, a boy about a couple years older than me, with glasses and gray hair. The boy and I locked eyes for a moment until he whispered something to the man he stood next to. He slowly turned to me and grinned, his teeth almost as white as his skin._

"He does seem like an interesting one, Kabuto. Say hello to your new brother."

_I can vaguely remember the people at the foster home warning him how much trouble I've caused other families in the past. They basically told him __**not **__to even try with me. (Un)luckily for me, he was stubborn. (Un)luckily for me, his other "son" wanted to a new "brother" to play with. And by son, I meant his slave to anything his father wanted; by brother, I meant toy._

_Once the man had filled out the paper work, clarifying I was his new "son", he slipped his fingers around mine. Cold; he was cold. Almost dead-cold. But I didn't pull my fingers away; they felt like they have been frozen to his. As we started walking away from those that could overhear our conversation, he leaned over and whispered his name into my ear, Orochimaru. The way his name crawled out from his throat, the way he __**fucking said it**__, sent shivers tingling my entire body. I hated repeating his name, especially since, after I reached an early puberty, he demanded my saying it. Other than the times where I was forced to moan his name, I referred to him as Skin. To friends, he was Skin; to teachers, Skin was "he". My friends got a little kick out of the nickname, thinking he was a skin-head. I played along, later down the road, and agree, The real reason for his nickname was because I could never shake the feeling of his skin against mine for the first time. It haunted my thoughts, entered my dreams. I'd break out into cold sweat during the middle of winter. I'd shiver during blistering summer days. I was terrified…and I couldn't escape him._

_As it turned out, the screaming and crying I was able to get away with at previous homes wasn't tolerated at my new one. Option one to solving my upsets was a swift and hard smack across the face. Option two was being locked away in a room until I calmed down or Skin grew tired of me and resorted to option three. Option three was being beaten until __**he **__grew tired or I passed out. The last resort was always the worst; we both had great stamina. Needless to say, I learned pretty damn quickly. Well, sort of. It took a month of constant Option three and shattered bones to convince me that I'm probably not going to be leaving this place. At least, not alive. So I learned to grow use to not throwing temper tantrums within a month of living with him. Within half a month from there, I learned that Kabuto is allowed to touch me in places that weren't fully developed or use my body any which way he pleased…unless I wanted to be beaten again. Within a few days from that, I learned that I give Skin anything he wanted as well. Dealing with him nearly wasn't as bad as Kabuto, for awhile anyway. If he wanted something to drink, I'd rush to the fridge and get him whatever he wanted. The same thing with food and an article of clothing he wanted to wear. Occasionally, he'd want me to strip naked and "model", but he would never touch me. After I got use to the beatings and learned to cover them properly when I went out into public places, it wasn't so bad. It could have been worse._

_Right?_

"Exactly two weeks from now…you only have two more weeks left."

I didn't look at my lawyer, didn't want to. I leaned against the chair behind me and ignored the clatter of the handcuffs attached to my wrists. Prisoner to the end, apparently. There was no such thing as sympathy here, even with prison guards pointing their guns at you every time you left your cell. Then again, I'd probably point a gun at someone who killed another person, even though he was clearly trapped in handcuffs, too.

"You should have just pled insanity, kid. You could have at least _tried _to look like you were off your rocket. You had your whole life ahead of you."

What I _should _have done was not pull the trigger in the first place. I probably should have just smacked him in the mouth a few good times and continue on with my flyin'. Or, if I really wanted to pull the trigger, it should have been on myself.

Shit. Why did that situation sound so familiar to me?

"Why did you say you were guilty?"  
"Because it was true."

That slipped.  
More or less.

"I'm aware of that…but don't you care that you're going to die in a few weeks from now? Don't you care that you won't make it to twenty-one? Don't you care that you're not going to share your first drink with your dad?"

A sort of bubbling started in my stomach and made my lips quiver. I lowered my head so my eyes were staring into my lap and the feeling quickly developed from my stomach to my chest and out from my throat. The sound was so foreign. But as my neck snapped up and my lips twisted into a smile, the sound- laughing?- came out strained. My vocal cords forgot how to do it. **I **forgot how to do it.

"What's so funny?"

He sounded too tired; exhaustion was an understatement. When I managed to stop the laughter, I looked at him in the eyes. Eyes that were dull to the point of boredom, and told unspoken stories of all the cases he had been stuck working with since finding work in the field. His skin held aging marks and wrinkles. His hair streaked with gray. He looked more so like a grandfather than a lawyer,  
_minus an alcoholic beverage close at hand._

What? Well, whatever. You never made sense.  
_I would if you remembered.  
_Remember? No, thanks. This constant haze of guilt and confusion is more appealing than remembering anything. If I forgot most of my childhood, it couldn't have been so great. The point in remembering it would be…?  
_If you feel that way then there's no use in explaining.  
_Exactly.

"Well…? What are you chuckling about?"

I shifted in my seat and stared up into the ceiling. Again, I refused to look at him and closed my eyes. I searched for the words to say but couldn't find them. What **was **so funny? I searched for the reason but something blocked me from coming up with the answer. Was there even an answer? I'm sure there is. Only crazy people laugh at nothing.  
_Only crazy people take human lives._

I closed my eyes tighter.  
_I know what was so funny…  
_Do you now? Well, feel free to enlighten both of us.

I breathed in and out for a moment. Suddenly, I felt tired and leaned back again in my chair. Exhaustion suddenly over took my mind but after I breathed out again, I locked eyes with the man sitting across the table from me.  
"_Do you know anything about my past?_"

The question caught him by surprise.  
"_No? Well, original daddy's dead-" _I tilted my head to the side and smiled. _"-shot himself and mommy too. Sent to and from the same damn foster home until I was five. Then Skin took me in. Got me into all sorts of stuff. Drinking? I'm sure I already did that with the fucker. What __**didn't **__I do with him?"_

The same laughter from earlier returned but this time, my body shook with it. I leaned so far in my chair that it tipped over, sending me to the floor. The sudden contact to the floor stopped the laughter and my mind became tired again. Maybe I got a concussion? That would be a blessing. But, as I looked up to the three guards surrounding me and my lawyer looking down at me in perfect vision, I realized I wasn't so lucky.

"Are you okay?" a guard spat.  
"Unfortunately," I replied.

I was suddenly holstered to my feet and looked into the eyes of the man so desperately to help me. I looked away to the corner of the Rec. room.

"Take me to my cell?" I whispered.  
"Planning on it."

One of the guards spun me around and shoved me forward.  
_Prisoner to the very end._


	3. CRANK: two

Crank

**By: **GothicGIR

**Summary: : **"You should have just pled insanity, kid. You could have at least _tried_ to look like you were off your rocket. You had your whole life ahead of you." What I _should _have done was not pull the trigger in the first place. I probably should have just smacked him in the mouth a few good times and continue on with my flyin'. Or, if I really wanted to pull the trigger, it should have been on myself. Yaoi. NaruSasu. (Naruto and other people). Drugs. Rape. Sex. Murder/ violence. Child abuse.

**Author's note: **The title, Crank, was a title of a book by Ellen Hopkins. The only similarities between her book and this fanfiction are the drug use...and the title. I highly recommend reading ALL of Ellen Hopkins' books! They're amazing!

_Past narrative story/ voice in Naruto's head.  
_Recent telling/ what other's say during past narrative.

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

I didn't sleep the previous night. Not that I ever really got sleep since I've been holed up in these four walls of hell, but tonight was extremely un-resembling. Different nights, even after being used as a personal punching bag for fellow inmates, I was at least able to rest my eyes during the period of "Lights Out". Different nights, although my body was used for a sexual release for those able to sneak away from the prison guards' eyesight, I was still able to let myself relax enough for my body to become **somewhat **reenergized. Last night was spent with my eyes fixated on the cemented wall resting against my bed. Silence crept all around me; whereabouts shrieks and screams of my thoughts echoed in my head.

'I don't want to die!'  
'Help me!'  
'Get me the hell out of here!'

But, even so, I did not believe that the voice bawling those desperate cries for help was me. It couldn't have been. After all, I put myself in this situation, fully aware that I would be sentenced to death or, the very least, life. Why would I be so afraid of dying? Why would I be afraid of losing this life when I'm sure it had no meaning anyway?

I was addicted to drugs.  
I slept around.  
I killed.

And the worst part of it all was that I didn't remember why or when I had started developing bad habits. I **couldn't **remember. Something was stopping me from it. Every time I tried to bring something, anything, back to recollection, panic aroused inside my chest and those forbidden memories remained hazy.

How terrible could my childhood been?  
_Pretty goddamn terrible. I'm protecting you from remembering it.  
_'I suppose that's brave of you.'  
_Isn't it? I'm your fucking savior.  
_'Yeah? I suppose that explains why I'm here, right?'

And for the rest of the night, that voice-my voice?- haunting my thoughts was silenced. At first, I figured it would be a good thing; after all, having an argument with yourself is what gets people thrown in an asylum. But, within a few minutes, I realized that listening to something other than my actual own thoughts of desperation was comforting. Even if it was coated in dick-approved attitude.

The following morning, deprived of sleep and energy, I lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I hoped, no- **prayed**, for some lose convict to break in to my cell and take my life. Damn near impossible…but as Sasuke once said to me, "impossible still has the word possible in it".

Sasuke…wonder how he's doing…

I started thinking. About Sasuke. About how I was positive I would never see him again. A stab of guilt filled my chest and I found myself almost wishing I hadn't got myself into drugs in the first place. **Almost**. I was so caught up in the first sane thought I had in a while that I almost didn't hear that, over the intercom, whoever decided to take the job of running this God-forsaken place, announced today was the day we get to go outside. Outbursts and cheers erupted throughout the neighboring cells. Hollers and excited chatter echoed throughout. Idiots. What would be the point of going outside anyway? They're just teasing us. Outside is bait; so close to escaping but so far.

Slowly, I pulled myself into a sitting position on the bed. I stared straight ahead to the outside of my little cage and waited for one of the guards to open up the bars. I wasn't sure how long I waited- not sure I actually cared- but when one of them did finally show up, a fellow who looked in serious need of sleep and cough medicine, he gave off the facial expression of being taken aback by appearance. I'm pretty sure you aren't suppose to show fear here. Unless you want to be taken advantage of…in more ways than one. However, as I stood up and glanced at the reflection of myself in the mirror near the exit, I can't say I blamed him. I looked dead.

About time. It wouldn't be satisfactory enough if I only **felt **dead; got to look it, too.

"Rough night, *cough, cough*, kid?" Also-sleep-deprived asked me.

As I stopped near the exit of the cell, I watched him slip his keys into the lock holding me inside. I feel as though it would be easy to reach through the bars and snatch the keys from him. I also feel that that would be a pointless course of action. If I managed to unlock myself from here, I'm sure he would just shoot me. Matter of fact, the more he turns the key in the lock, the more also-sleep-deprived hand reaches for his gun. If I decided to just take the keys and retreat to one corner of my cage…well, I'm not entirely sure what they would do. Hell, I don't even know what I would do. Shove the keys down my pants and say "come and get them"?

Regardless of how meaningless it would be, I found it somewhat humorous. I let a smirk play on my lips. I ignored the fact of how twisted it seemed to think something like that could even be thought of as comical, and I ignored the guard's look of concern (and how awfully close his finger was to the trigger).

But, even with the look of concern, he decided to unlock the cell and pull the door open. I nodded my thanks and began walking towards the "cafeteria". Translation: room where fights- whether physical or verbal- break out daily. The first day I was here, I was a victim of one of these fights. Apparently, according to one of the senior members, I gave him a "funny ass look" while I was in the lunch line. The senior member that decided to hit me that day was a younger guy by the name of Hidan. He clocked me pretty damn hard, too. Hidan knocked out a tooth and broke my nose. His punishment was just to finish his meal and go back to his cell. The guards didn't care. Not that I blame them. Because, here, in Konaha County Jail, senior members are those on Death Row.

He got the chair a couple of days after breaking my nose.

So, that makes me a senior member.  
I suppose.

Not that anyone around here is actually going to listen to a nineteen year old. They hardly listen to the prison guards here. It's pretty much "I'm going to do whatever the hell I want" attitude within these walls. But, by small chance anyone were to ask me for some advice on how to survive here, I'd tell them that that bad-ass attitude won't help. It's what got them tossed aside and left in here in the first place. Let's just try to get the time out of the way and not cause anything that would effect the "released on good behavior" perk.

Geez.  
Who would figure I'd pick this time in my life to try and be a peace maker?

Irony...you sure are a bitch.

As usual, the "cafeteria" was filled with mindless chatter. And by mindless chatter, I mean testerone-hinted insults or conversations. It could have been the fact that I didn't care (much) about the honkin' size of this Sasori guy's dick, or I wasn't in the mood to see the arm wrestles that took place daily at the eating tables that I feel so bitter about it. Or, maybe, just **maybe**, the fact that I only have a few weeks to live is finally getting under my skin after last night's fiasco. Whatever it was, I was in no mood. And the brave, (stupid?) scrawny man serving the prisoners food was the one who had to experience it.

I was standing between two overgrown gorillas when my episode had happened. Both of them smelled terrible and I was grimacing in my sandwich'ed position. Add that to the lack of sleep I've been getting for the past year and I was a time bomb. One of the said gorillas leaned ever so lightly against me and I tensed up. He noticed and starting nudging his buddy over my head. Both of them cracked jokes and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

"Jesus Christ! All I did was poke the little guy! I'm guessing you're new here?"  
"Nah! I've seen him 'round. Jirobo and his bang-gang always took him for a fuck. They always be telling me how loose you are! Ain't that right?"  
"Loose! Ha! You like it up the ass, huh? Little fag likes it up the ass!"

I tensed up more and gripped the eating tray I was in possession of. I tried to calm myself down, to remind myself that half of the people here get off by being fucked in their ass, but to no avail. Something in my stomach tightened up and I felt sick. The feeling I was getting was familiar. I remembered it clearly. It was the same feeling I got after I killed...

"Why don't you guys just leave the kid alone?" the guy serving us breakfast suddenly chimed in, "He's not doing anything."

And then I snapped. The food he had just placed on my tray was soon covered on him. Not only had I flipped up my tray at him, I ludged in his direction. I grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him towards me and hit him. Right in the eye. Even after that, I wasn't satisfied. I crawled over the serving area, letting all of my mobile limps step into the food, and attacked him. Sat right on top of the only person to stand up for me in my year of being here, and attacked him. Like an animal. And by the time someone had managed to pull me off of him, I couldn't even recognize his face anymore. Already his face was starting swell and blood covered every inch of his face. Worst off, he wasn't moving. And, for a second, I panicked. I thought I killed a second man.

Even worst off then that, after that second of panic, I didn't care. I attempted to; I even tried to mumbled a sorry. But the voice that left my mouth was one I only knew from inside my head. And he didn't whisper an apology. He didn't murmur how he shouldn't of done it. In fact, he laughed. His smile took control of my lips, his motions threw my head back and he laughed.

And the only thing I could do was go limp in the prison guards' arms and close my eyes in an attempt to tone his voice out.

But I couldn't. His laughed echoed throughout the whole jail. My body shook with his laughter. This feeling was also something I had experienced in the past. This was how I was after I killed **him**. This was the exact reaction. The twisted laughter. The sick feeling of dominance after hurting other living thing. And I couldn't stop it. I wouldn't.

I liked being in control of something. And, after the voice had stopped cackling, he agreed. And then he was silent while I was being rushed back to my cell. Once we had reached there, the guards had shoved me into my cage, locked it back up and thanked the Gods I was going to be "put down" in a few more weeks.

I whispered my agreements after they left.

* * *

**Author's Important Note:  
**~Hey guys! My apologizes for being dead for some time now. I've been a bit stressed and focused on other things lately.  
~Reviews would be great!  
~Also, I feel like this story isn't so popular...I would like at _least _1o_-_15 reviews before I move on to chapter three. Please? :3


	4. CRANK: three

Crank

**By: **GothicGIR

**Summary: **"You should have just pled insanity, kid. You could have at least _tried _to look like you were off your rocket. You had your whole life ahead of you." What I _should _have done was not pull the trigger in the first place. I probably should have just smacked him in the mouth a few good times and continue on with my flyin'. Or, if I really wanted to pull the trigger, it should have been on myself. Yaoi. NaruSasu. (Naruto and other people). Drugs. Rape. Sex. Murder/ violence. Child abuse.

**Author's note: **The title, Crank, was a title of a book by Ellen Hopkins. The only similarities between her book and this fanfiction are the drug use...and the title. I highly recommend reading ALL of Ellen Hopkins' books! They're amazing!

_Past narrative story/ voice in Naruto's head.  
_Recent telling/ what other's say during past narrative

* * *

**Chapter 3:**

I found out, within a few days of being holed up here, there's nothing you can do to keep yourself completely sane. Absolutely nothing. Entering and leaving this place...heh, it takes a tiny piece of your sanity each time. The longer you're here, the more is lost. Believe me, I've seen it before. Those brave enough to visit their loved ones in here? They changed each time. Look closely into each of their eyes, and you'll see it. The most brightest, happiest, optimistic of eyes are dulled to the point of almost nonexistent and lost within this place. A man that came to see his younger brother's murderer was a victim to this. Although his eyes had seen more than their share of unspeakable truths, his occasional visits had turned those sickening oxyn eyes to a faded gray. God only knows why the older brother would visit the sick fuck who killed his brother but, due to those stand-offs, I found out that the only time this won't happen to you, is if you've already been to Hell before. And liked it.

I adored it.

Or so I'm guessing. As I've recited before, the memories from my childhood were foggy and hardly ventured backwards to. Nevertheless, even unaware of the exact details, I could tell there had to be a reason for the repressed subconsciousness I've been subjected to. After all, why else would I feel so comfortable, use to, the situation I locked myself into?

Out of all the shit I've seen and have been a part of since my arrival, I never once flinched. I relaxed my body when I saw other cell mates being beaten. I allowed a smirk or two when drug addicts came stumbling in, shouting out their needs for "one more hit". Hell, hearing the sex around me- wether it being consent or rape- got me off. All because it seemed so familiar to me. So, with the feeling I've been through it all before, why would I continously lose my already expired soul to it? I couldn't. It was that simple. My only options left are to disregard it or luxuriate in it. Ultimately, my body's going to die in a few weeks...why not make the most of what I have left?

* * *

_The years with Skin were nothing short of agonizing and jaded. In the very first year of living with him, I had three broken ribs, a concussion, a sprained ankle and a shattered arm. For each injury, I went to the hospital to be "fixed", as Skin put it. For each visit, there were no questions asked from the doctors- yet alone concerned looks_. "Kids these days_," one of them had griped_. "I don't get paid enough to repair their every bone when their dumbass parents aren't paying attention." _That doctor, with his frozen touch and pale features, had me convinced that every person in the world was as cold and unfeeling as Skin. And, it was after seeing that man, that Skin decided it was the last hospital visitation I've ever get. He told me it was punishment for being so easily battered.__ It was also the day I decided I hated this world and every last hopeless life ever to inhabit it._

_I was six years old._

_In time, my view on the world had only gotten worse. Logically speaking, the years of being beaten senseless by my "father" weren't going to turn me into some peace-seeking Quaker, but into a crankbrained Neanderthal. In more ways than one. Hardly being able to grasp the concept of right over wrong, and I was already intimate with the idea of treating others with the same approach I was use to: violence._

_Age seven: Skin, after being constantly harassed by the Board of Education in the Konaha district, had reluctantly enrolled me in Konaha Elementary. The previous night before my arrival at the school, I had been blessed to hear Skin stricken with anxiety while lecturing me to "not draw attention" to myself and "cover the damn bruises". Still a child, I was too frightened of the consquences of my actions to actually alert someone of the abuse and had only nodded in agreement (despite the fact that I would have been riddled with joy to see his ass hauled to the nearest jail in the district). To his credit, in just two years, Skin had broken me. I had went from a shrieking banshee to a borderline mute. However, as many others before me repeated and stressed time and time again, actions speak louder than words. My actions the first day of school had not only spoke louder than words, but gave one hell of a first impression: I was not to be misjudged or miscalculate against, even at such an undeveloped age. Reflecting what I recieved at home, I took out my suffering on my unexpecting peers. A swift punch to the mouth of a boy named Kiba for- I'll admit- no reason, an elbow in the gut to his friend Shino who rushed to his aid and a kicking and screaming fit to the teacher that pulled me away from the both of them. Yanked from the classroom and shoved to the Principal's office, I waited patiently through the phone called made to Skin about my behavior, not exactly coming to grip with the reality that school had **actually **called him about my upset. The devastating actuality, I soon realized, was that I couldn't get away with taking out my pain on my younger classmates, like Skin did to me. Upon his slithering way of walking to greet me at the school and already bruising grip around my wrist when he dragged me to the car, did I realize that. Needless to say, as soon as the door was locked of our dinky apartment, he thrashed his annoyance and frustration out on me. A backhand across to the face and several- too many to count- kicks to my side. After he was done, leaving me whimpering and crying softly into the carpet, Skin left our inhabitancy in a rage. He was gone but a few hours, yet I stayed in my degrading position on the floor. I knew better than to try and move after a beating like that. And I sure as hell knew better than to try and tend to my wounds. Not that I actually could properly treat the result of my punishment, but if Skin caught sight of a band-aid, I'd be beaten twice as hard._

_I had learned that lesson the hard way before._

_With Skin's return, Kabuto hot on his heels, he mumbled about us moving to another town to "start fresh". Even as young as I was, I knew he didn't care about starting fresh- he just didn't want to attract the attention of those nearby. Despite his confident, overbearing power over me, those he didn't even have the slightest clue of their names, held a much more powerful, threatening authority over him. After all, anyone could call the cops. Anyone could catch a glimpse of the black and blue mixed my natural skin tone. Anyone could save me._

_No one, however, did. The three of us jumped from location to location, because I had upsets in every school I was placed in. Each place of residence was more ran-down and morbid than the last. Years of this later had we finally settled into most would call the "Ghetto", the "Projects". I could never call any of the places we moved to "home". Wasn't "home" something you looked foward coming back to after a long day? Wasn't "home" somewhere you can be welcomed to? Wasn't "home" suppose to house a family and warm dinners every evening? According to basic television, it was. According to reality, it wasn't. Especially this new place Skin found for us. Prostitutes were frequent visitors here, drug dealers were the majority population and murder was the favorable crime. I was twelve at my first day of Sukin***** Moderate School, going into the fifth grade. I had a clue why the teachers in every school let me continue passing their grades levels- because they didn't want to put up with any more of my behavioral issues- but I didn't care much. I didn't have any friends, so I had no attachments at any of the schools I went to. Sukin*** **turned out to be no different on that degree, but it was on several others. Sukin*** **wasn't separated amongst clicks of those with money or stunning good looks- everyone, to some extend, was the same. Everyone attending had a piss-poor, shitty home life. Also, the type of classmates I was use to injuring so easily at previous schools weren't there. They simply did not exsist at the school. Everyone knew how to fight, and fight hard._

_I also found this out the hard way._

_I had my ass handed to me several times by not only those in my grade, but those above. Even the teachers, when I started to mouth off or become out of control, weren't afraid to hit me. Order? Conduct? Under-fucking-standing? It did **not **happen at Sukin*****. The best part of the school, however, was just that. Having no sense of "system" to keep the students in check. Skin wasn't contacted at all from the school but, instead, only gave witness to the bruises and marks I was given at school when I had finally limped my way home (busing, as well, ceased to exsist). When his eyes landed on the skin he use to bruise himself, he laughed in disbelief that others got off on it too. I wasn't bothered that he laughed, so much as the **way **he did. Like himself, Skin's laugh was ugly and tainted. It was loud, boastful and, worst off, stiffening. You could almost see it crawl out from the depths of his throat. But, I figured, as long as he had stopped taking his frustrations out on me, I didn't really care if the worst he did was laugh at me._

_It wasn't though.  
After a few weeks free physical abuse, he became more interested in my body._

_"My, Naruto," he would frequently whisper from behind me, "You sure are growing up."_

_In the past, I watched Skin from the corner of my eye, taking in his body language and mannerisms for his frustration towards me. His shoulders, usually leveled and confident, rose more towards his chin. The silent, stalking movement he called walking turned to tense, uneven steps. Jaw tightened so much I could hear the grinding of his teeth. Fists clenched too hard they bled onto his palm. He turned from a snake to a bear when he was ready to "punish" me. This time, when I grew the courage to glance at him, he was aroused. The erection he never bothered hiding from view stood with pride inside his fucking pants. Despite that repulsing gesture, Skin looked smugged. Relaxed. Like he owned the ground I walked on._

_And, in a way, maybe he did. He did buy me, after all. He did provide shelter. He did bend and break me to his obedience. But, the looks he had been giving me around my preteen years were different. They were sexual._

_And I knew it too.  
Deep down, regardless of the constant inner battle between my thinking differently and reality, I knew he wanted me in his bed._

_Years earlier, he had given the same treatment to Kabuto. Too welcoming touches on the skin, godawful whispers into his ear, the cocky look. It was the same with my "brother"._

_But that sick fuck welcomed it.  
Kabuto, being seven years older than I, was more subjected to hormones and sexual urges. It was sick to know that, by the time I was six, I already knew what sex was. It was even sicker to know that my own "father" and "brother" were having a grand ol' time participating in such activities in the bedroom next to mine. _

_By the time they finally both came, every time too, it felt like the entire residence reeked of sex and blood. It lingered in the air, nipping at my own flesh. Sometimes, I found myself clawing at my own skin, as if I could scratch away the odor. Once, Skin had layed his yellow eyes on my action and smirked._

_He knew what I was doing, somehow.  
He always knew what I was doing.  
All the time._

_He told me,_ "One day soon, it'll be your turn."  
_I was just always praying for a miracle that the day would never come._

* * *

**_* _**According to Google Translate, _Sukin_ means "Skin" in Japanese. YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? ;D  
*****Also, please review! I actually do like this story- as twisted as it sounds- and would like some input. And please share this with others? :3  
*****I do like others' opinions on my work! Don't be shy about anything~


End file.
